Everything changes
by PensAreAwesome
Summary: Claire is back in Texas but not for any reason she'd like. Instead she's paying a visit to an ex-serial killer with the intention of making him do something he doesn't want to do. Easy, right?
1. Chapter 1

Claire turned down another dusty Texas road. She would have thought that getting back to her home state would be like coming home but no. Firstly the region in North Texas she'd been driving through wasn't in any way familiar to her, well except maybe the heat and the general landscape that was passing by as she drove. Secondly she'd always imagined that when she'd ever get back to Texas, it would be for some joyful occasion, perhaps a vacation but certainly not _him_.

And now she was lost again. Claire let out a frustrated sigh and leaned over the passenger seat to track her finger on the map once more, trying to make out where she was. When she was satisfied with her result she drank a few big gulps of water before she turned the car around and headed on.

As she drove her thoughts travelled back to the reason she was in the great state of Texas again. Sylar. Naturally no other assignment would take her in her home state. Why had he picked Texas anyway? _To ruin it for me_, a small voice whispered in her head. _Like that would work_. Claire smiled to herself but had she seen that smile, she'd have had to admit it was more of a grimace. She made a mental note to be less bitter in the future.

She tried another smile, a genuine one this time. In the end, it _was_ a beautiful day. The sky was bright blue above her, the landscape she'd hardly paid attention to was the one she'd loved since childhood rough and bare but utterly breathtaking.

Almost an hour and two u-turns later, Clare finally took a right turn and started slowly down a narrow dust road lined with a row of trees on either side. The trees seemed dried up and rather sad in this heat, Claire decided. She came to a stop in front of a modest two-storey building with a rusty pickup truck parked in front.

As she cut the engine, she couldn't help but feel a little nauseous. She wasn't scared, she wasn't angry, she'd just have been rather somewhere else. But then again she could see the logic behind the Company's decision the send her in particular. When the monster refuses to play by their rules, they send the one person who simply cannot be killed to retrieve him.

Gosh, when had she seen him last anyway? After the Central Park incident Peter had gone around as if half-mad, telling everyone who would listen that Sylar had made a miraculous "recovery" and set on a path of redemption. Okay, maybe that train of thought was a bit overdone by Claire's mind, she admitted, but it wasn't far from the truth.

Peter had told her how hard it had been at first to simply not hate his brother's killer, to not punch him in the face every single time just to wipe away that smug grin that too often sat there (even if the smirk was only a product of his imagination). And how hard it had been to finally forgive him. Claire hadn't wanted to hear any of it, hadn't been ready to give the man a chance. She wasn't sure she'd ever truly be.

Peter had had his time to come to terms with Sylar's "transformation" in some wacky dream world Matt Parkman had allegedly put them in. He'd had all these years to get used to the idea. Everyone else still knew that yesterday he'd been the psychopathic killer and now he was supposed to be… well, not a killer anymore.

Anyway, Claire had seen the man here and there ever since that night. Usually with Peter and, believe it or not, mostly pretty much hiding behind his only friend. He must have _loved_ these events where everyone who hated him came together and he had only Peter and Emma to protect him, or as Claire saw it, protect everyone else from him.

At first Claire had not been… _how to put it?_ very civilized. But time did do its work and by Peter and Emma's wedding she'd accepted the fact that maybe, just maybe, he had changed enough to tolerate his existence. Huh, their wedding must have been one of the last times she'd seen him. It had certainly been a night to remember or, well... Peter and The Haitian had joined their force to block everybody's powers to avoid any mishaps and things had gone a little hazy for Claire after a generous amount of liquor. Enough said.

After the wedding Claire had glimpsed him a few more times in New York when visiting Peter but he had rented his own apartment and knew how to keep his distance whenever she was around. Right after her graduation she'd been recruited by the Company and started her path down what she saw as her very Zen lifestyle of "stop saving the world and go with the flow". It was just easier to live that way and it made sense since joining the Company meant making morally gray decisions more or less every day. So since she couldn't feel pain anyway and jumping off the Ferris wheel had turned out _so well_… why bother, right?

And he, apparently, had somehow ended up in Texas.

Claire got out of the car and closed the door intentionally loudly. Invading the monster's lair unannounced was bad enough, she wasn't planning to take it by stealth attack. Of course he'd hear her anyway even if she tried. And if he was going to run it was out of her hands plainly because he could fly and she couldn't.

She climbed up the porch and knocked on the door as any civilized human being would do. _Should I have brought a housewarming gift?_ she wondered sarcastically while waiting. No one came. She knocked again and then once more but still nothing. She was losing her patience grabbing the doorknob only to discover the door was open. _Okay, here goes_.

She entered "the lair" as she'd already conveniently named it. She wasn't exactly expecting corpses and torture devices, not anymore, but she wasn't also expecting something so normal. She walked through the small entrance hall and found herself in a spacious living room.

"Hello," she called out warily her eyes darting around the room prepared for him to jump out of the shadows trying to slice open her skull at any moment. As that thought hit her, she couldn't suppress the burst of laughter escaping from her lips. _Absolutely ridiculous_. Claire knew perfectly well he'd changed but somehow her mind always conjured up the absolute worst situation of everything when even remotely associated with him.

She took in the modest furnishing. Everything stood still and silent large fireplace, couch coupled with two armchairs, several bookcases, TV that seemed to originate from the previous century. She stalked to the kitchen that was almost as big as the living room. _Also so completely normal_. And it smelled of coffee and cinnamon instead of dead bodies. _Stop it_, Claire forced herself not to laugh at her twisted mind.

"Is anybody home?" she bellowed, encouraged by all this normality. No answer. She started to think Sylar wasn't home or, more so, that she had the wrong address. As it was rude to rummage around somebody else's house, she exited through the back door and found herself on another porch that opened to the backyard. Fruit trees, berry bushes, greenhouse and garage. _Nothing out of the ordinary_.

She took a few steps further, stretching her hands skyward. She did have a long drive behind her and another one ahead. The sun had sunken low and the heat had receded, making the weather quite nice. Claire was about to turn around and call it quits when a dark head of hair darted up behind one of the large berry bushes. She jumped up like she'd been electrocuted which, by the way, reminded her that's something he could do.

"Claire?" Sylar said incredulously. He looked as out of character as an ex-psycho could get wearing a checkered button-down shirt and holding a pair of clippers. "What are you doing here?"

Claire took a few quick breaths to calm her heart down. "Looking for you," she said in an even voice. "Did you really think the Company would just leave you be when you stop answering your phone?"

"No," he said slowly, frowning. "But I didn't think they'd send you."

Claire quirked an eyebrow as if it had been obvious. "The only person you can't kill?"

Sylar gave her a slightly annoyed look but the nasty smirk she was expecting didn't come. She was almost disappointed. That was one whole reason to despise him.

Instead he wiped his brow with a handkerchief he'd dug out of his pocket when she didn't notice and started towards the porch his pair of clippers still swinging in his hand. When he finally noticed the focus of Claire's eyes, he set the tool down on the edge of the porch, a small smile lighting up his face.

"You truly have an inexhaustible imagination," he quipped. "Coffee?"

Twenty minutes later they were sitting on the very same porch drinking no other than coffee. _Perfectly civilized. _

"So," Sylar started tactfully. "You've come here to… drag me back to New York?"

Claire took a sip eying him carefully over the brim of her cup. He didn't look concerned. _Not good_. Did that mean he had no intention of coming without a fight? And to be honest, there wasn't a fight on earth she could win against him unless it was a cheer leading competition.

"Yes," she answered coldly. "Kicking and screaming if I must." _It's all about self-confidence, right?_

She was startled by the barking laughter that came from him. "Sorry, Claire but He made a strange choking noise before he burst out laughing.

Claire had spent a lot of time telling herself she no longer feared Sylar but the truth was, well, the truth was he still scared her. _How to explain?_ He was a scary man. But she supposed that that very moment would go down in history because for the first time she didn't find him scary at all.

To her own utter surprise she emitted a chuckle.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: As English is not my native language, I apologize for any past and future grammatical mishaps. Also thank you for taking the time to review, I appreciate it greatly.**

"So you own all this land?" Claire asked conversationally. And because she was generally curious.

"Yes," he allowed staring at the horizon his face lit up with something that oddly seemed like pride.

"Huh." So Sylar lived alone in a house pretty much in the middle of nowhere. _Can't get much stranger than that_, Claire thought. "What about not wanting to die alone?" she wasn't entirely sure she was allowed to mention that particular fear of his but then again it had been him who wanted to brainstorm for solutions all these years ago.

He didn't turn his gaze from the landscape. "What about facing fears?" he asked small smile curving his lips. "Since I'm going to live forever-" he stopped for a moment looking at Claire almost gently before he turned back to appreciating the view. "I suppose living forever means being alone a lot-" he fell silent again as if lost in his train of thought. "And you know I love a challenge," he finished in a brighter tone.

"So _this_-" Claire gestured her surroundings "-is like some kind of a survival challenge?"

"You could say that," he chuckled lightly. "It's nice here. People are friendlier." _Yes, that's because they don't know about the people you've killed._

"Well anyway, as I said already, I'm not here to chat exactly," Claire switched back to more formal tone. "Just come back with me, do your thing and you'll be back in your lair in no time."

"_Lair_?" he drawled, clearly amused now. He set his mug on the small round table between them growing serious again. "But honestly, Claire, I'm done with the Company. I know what they want me to do and my answer is no. You can tell them that when you get back."

_He didn't know. Why would he?_ Clare dismissed the comment.

"One way or the other you _will_ go back, you know that. It's up to you whether it'll be willingly or with you strapped to a table." She felt a wave of what resembled sadness washing over her, mostly because what she said was probably the truth. They'll never let him go and if she herself was to resign she wasn't sure they'd let her go either. She wasn't sure she wanted to find out. Maybe ignorance was bliss and she liked feeling on top of things, even if it was only an illusion.

"Okay, I'll admit," Claire sighed, "not everything they do is moral and honest but they're helping people like us. Somebody _has_ to stand up for our kind and, yes, to do so, you can't always play clean."

"You call locking up people and experimenting on them helping people?"

"Not everybody can handle their abilities. Now that the world knows about us, it's more important than ever to show average people that we can all live in peace," Claire's voice went up defensively as she spoke.

"My God, do you actually believe what you're saying or did you recite it from some Company textbook?" Sylar looked like he was trying to explain something elementary to a small child without any success. "You sound _exactly_ like your father. Ironic," he chuckled humorlessly.

"Ironic?"

"Ironic that faith is such a twisted bastard corrupting you and redeeming me." _And there it was!_ That smug and so unbelievably irritating grin that it made Claire grit her teeth. "Do you even know what they want me to do?"

Of course she knew. The real question was how did he? Well, there was no harm in telling him. Once his little rebellion was squashed she would have to tell him anyway. "We need to get to Boston once we've made an appearance in the main facility and-" she stopped when she got a glimpse of Sylar's face, the grin still firmly in place. But now that Claire looked at him more closely, she noticed that his infamous smirk was different, somehow gloomy.

"That's just a detour. What they _really_ want?" _What they really want?_ Claire felt like somebody had hit her in the head with a frying pan, both incredibly furious and completely idiotic at the same time. Had the Company left her in the dark? _Unbelievable…_

"I don't know what you're talking about," she admitted resignedly dropping her empty coffee mug on the table. _Don't you dare blush_, she commanded herself mentally.

She had never actually bumped into Sylar whenever he happened to be in the New York facility but she was familiar with some of the work he'd done for the Company. Nothing special really, mostly detective work using psycometry, sometimes retrieving more troublesome targets. She had automatically assumed that that was all the Company wanted from him and it seemed like their arrangement had worked pretty well until he'd thrown a rather childish tantrum refusing to obey the rules in place. Evidently she'd missed out on something.

When Claire finally raised her eyes she expected him to look ecstatic since he was obviously holding information that could potentially shatter her comfy little world but the smirk was gone and instead he seemed oddly tired.

"They want me to cut open somebody's head so the _heroic_ doctor Suresh could see exactly in which part of the brain their ability lays," he explained monitoring Claire's reaction closely.

She kept her face plain but inside she felt her heart sink. That was nothing less than monstrous. But no, that was not something Mohrinder Suresh would do. He was a man of science, true, but always compassionate and, uh, _sane?_ "You're lying," she told as much to herself as to him.

"You can keep telling yourself that and never take off the blinders _or_ you can face the truth," he shrugged simply.

"I don't believe you," Claire said more confidently.

"I can still tell when someone's lying," he reminded her. "What do they have on you? Seriously, tell me why you're still buying their nonsense? I mean, you can see as clearly as I can that they've long ago strayed from the original purpose of the new Company. Why can't you admit it?"

Sylar's gaze had turned so scrutinizing Claire felt a sudden urge to hide somewhere he couldn't see her. His questions had wandered to a territory she did not want to explore. The Company. The assignment. Her only concern was to complete what she had come for and she knew that in the end it would serve the greater good.

If the Company truly asked Sylar to scalp someone then it was probably some psychopath and for a good reason.

"So what then, Sylar?" she threw her hands up in frustration. "You want to collect dust on the outskirts of a small town in Texas? I thought you wanted to be the hero, give a little back since you've taken so much already."

He froze just for a split second before falling back to a relaxed form. "I've told you to call me Gabriel," he said calmly, making Claire roll her eyes. He'd always be Sylar to her whatever anyone else called him, least of all himself.

"But yes, I wanted to be a hero…" he continued, "once upon a time. Unfortunately life isn't a comic book. You see, in a comic book a hero always has a villain to fight. In real life there are no villains. There're corrupt politicians and greedy CEOs who, yes, often make selfish decisions that only serve themselves but do they deserve to die? And does it make any real difference when there's a line of people ready to take over their positions should they disappear?"

"They want to treat us like criminals or use us, I'd call that villainous. And we're not talking about politics right now, that's Tracy Strauss's domain. Mine is controlling possibly dangerous evolved humans."

"And there I thought you'd transferred to Research and Development – Suresh's division." _Was that supposed to be funny? _"Face it Claire, there are no heroes. Even you have resigned from saving the world to plainly take orders."

"Peter is a hero," she said simply.

"Yes," he laughed softly, eyes lighting up to the mention of his only friend. "But a retired hero. Eventually even he realized it was a fruitless fight."

Claire forced herself to ignore his last remark. "Do you know where he is?" she asked warily. It still stung a bit to know that _he_ had become closer to her uncle than herself.

"No." He looked numb. "All I know is that he and Emma are safe somewhere even the Company's _tracking system_ can't find them."

They stayed silent for a while, both staring afar, lost in thought. Claire missed her uncle. He was the only person in the world who could make her feel like all her problems had disappeared, even if just for a moment. She missed Emma too. Before the two of them had vanished, Claire had become quite good friends with her.

She shook her head slightly to snap out of her trip down memory lane. "We need to go," she said decidedly, standing up and motioning Sylar to do the same.

"I told you I'm not coming," he said, not even bothering to look at her.

"Alright," she said in a tone that made him turn his gaze on her with unease. She suppressed a satisfied smirk and started towards the back door. "I'll burn down the house if I have to but you _are_ going to come with me. Then you'll have no reason to stay here anyway."

It wasn't the nicest thing to threaten him, obviously, but during her time working for the Company she'd learned several _tricks_ that came handy in getting what you need. One of them was finding something the target loved and threatening to destroy it. Cruel, but incredibly effective. Sylar had apparently developed some sort of love for the place so why not to use it to her advantage?

She put her hand on the doorknob giving him a determined look.

"You must be joking," he sounded absolutely astonished.

"Though, it would probably be enough to mess up your music collection to break you," she laughed wickedly. She was well aware how much he liked order ever since he'd been Peter's roommate.

"Seriously, Claire. This is childish, not to mention I'd never let you follow through."

Claire laughed again as she let go of the doorknob and straightened up. The whole situation was rather absurd – her trying to convince an ex-serial killer to do something he clearly didn't want to, and him not yielding an inch.

"I suppose I'll have to prepare myself for a camp out with a canister of fuel and some matches at hand until your watchfulness falters," she quipped and she could swear she saw his lip twitch.

"But in all seriousness," she continued, sighing. It was time to use her trump card, her best threat, though she'd hoped she wouldn't have to result to that. "As I said before, one way or the other. If you don't come with me the next visit won't be so friendly. You might be powerful but they're powerful too. Either Parkman screws with your mind or Suresh gets an excellent excuse to try out his new set of suppressive drugs, they will eventually get you and it will be far messier than simply coming with me."

Sylar stared at her, wide-eyed and somewhat shrunken, probably working through his options. He was wearing that distinctive scowl of his that made him look like he was working on an especially complicated equation.

Claire noticed that the sun had sunken further down, its edge touching the horizon now. _How long had they debated about this?_ She glanced at her wristwatch to find out it had been quite a while. "Great," she muttered, irritated again. Even if they'd go right now they'd probably still miss the plane she meant to catch.

"Fine, I'll come with you," Sylar finally breathed, _smart man_, "_but_ tomorrow. I have things to take care of. _And_ I won't be slicing up any heads."

"Thankfully the Boston job won't require it." Despite the one day delay they would have, Claire was fairly satisfied with the outcome and, moreover, relieved that her assignment was nearly completed.

"Come on," he said absent-mindedly, getting up from his chair, "I'll get you set up in the guestroom." And once again Claire felt that strange confusion she had whenever he said something so normal and innocent. She really should be used to it by now.

As she followed him upstairs she found herself wondering whether she'd face the morning with a sharp object lodged in the back of her head or would he keep his word and come quietly. Guess you can't be exactly sure when you're the houseguest of a former serial killer.


	3. Chapter 3

Sylar led her to a medium sized room with windows facing the driveway. The bed was bare indicating it hadn't been used for a while. _If ever_, Claire noted. She couldn't really imagine Sylar having many houseguests.

He provided her with bedding and even floated her travel bag out of the car and into the room through an open window. _That must have been a convenient skill_, Claire mused as she stood aside watching him with faint astonishment. It was all just odd.

"Uhm, I think that should do," Sylar said, inspecting the room thoughtfully. Uncomfortable silence ensued.

"Will you give me a house tour?" Claire spoke up in a chipper voice. She felt pretty great to be honest. She didn't have to drive back tonight, she could sleep in an actual bed and she was in Texas, no less. Things looked fairly good at that very moment. Even the fact that she was staying at Sylar's place couldn't ruin it for her.

"If you'd like," he shrugged.

They went through the house, opening doors, and falling into casual conversation. Apparently the house had been empty for some time before he'd bought it a few years back and spruced it up.

He showed her the bathroom they'd share for one day, skipped his bedroom smoothly and moved on to what he described as "everything-room".

It was a spacious room filled with - as he had promised - kind of everything. In the middle stood a large table covered in broken radios and all sorts of other technical devices mixed with heaps of bolts and screws and different metallic gadgets. There was a telescope by a large window and what looked like an old jukebox with a mountain of records on top of it. Left part of the room was mainly occupied by canvases, some painted, others plain and an easel topped with an unfinished painting of Texan landscape in the middle of them. In the right side sat a small couch coated with books.

Claire found herself vaguely wondering if she had to rethink the whole Sylar-is-sort-of-a-neat-freak thing, though the rest of the house she'd seen this far had been organized fastidiously. This room was a mess but the kind of mess where you wanted to fiddle with all the cool things lying around. _Maybe it was a work in progress?_

"I didn't know you painted," she pointed out, her eyes darting around the room, not knowing what to focus on.

"I-" he sounded cautious, leaning against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, "that's for… I lost some abilities awhile back-"

"When you spent a little time south of the border?" Claire smiled mockingly. "I remember _that_ story."

"Yes, well, those abilities are still there, I just haven't figured out how to access them again." His voice went up in excitement as he spoke. "It's not like I can cut open my own head and-" when she saw Claire's raised eyebrow, he paused mid-sentence, remembering who he was talking to.

Claire stifled a laugh that threatened to escape her lips and Sylar coughed like he was trying to do the same. She really had no idea why she found it funny but she was tired of tip toeing around his past.

"Anyway, I think I'm getting closer," he added after clearing his throat.

Claire's gaze travelled from one painting to another. Most were of landscapes. "Anything's come true yet?" she japed, referring to Isaac Mendez's ability of precognition, he was clearly trying to summon. Taking a few steps forward she became to a halt before the table, fingers hovering over the littered surface, scanning for something to fiddle with. She eventually settled on a bolt, rolling it between her fingers.

"I was trying to fix the jukebox," he explained observing her.

She put down the bolt and stalked on to examine the item in question. "Where have you gotten all this stuff?" she asked absent-mindedly, shifting through some of the records. Majority of them seemed to be from the 60's and 70's.

"Some of it was left behind by the previous owner," he motioned the telescope. "But the jukebox I got from the local bar."

Claire had already set the records aside and was toying with the dusty telescope. Certainly not state-of-art, she noted. "Have you ever used it?"

"I have," he still hadn't moved from the doorframe. "I like to keep busy… any way that I can. Even if it means mapping the sky. It, uh, helps with, um, distracts me from other thoughts."

They continued their tour on the bottom floor. Claire had already briefly seen the kitchen and the living room. In addition to them the first storey included a study with a large desk, pool table and alarmingly many bookcases and a whole room reserved solely for everything ticking – clocks and watches big and small, or _timepieces_ as he called them. Claire found that particular room more than a tad creepy but decided to keep her opinion to herself for once.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Claire tried to contact the Company to report her progress but her phone got no signal, so she decided to try again in the morning. Sylar threw together some sandwiches for them before he settled down in one of the armchairs with a thick medical book. _A bit of light reading, huh?_ Hadn't he worked as a doctor in New York some years ago, Clare might have been anxious, but according to Hiro Nakamura he had quite a knack for removing tumors, though he obviously couldn't use his finger for it in a real hospital.

Instead of thinking how people let him prod their brains voluntarily these days, she curled up on the couch, flipping through the channels, which he did not have many, not to mention the TV was literally ancient. He claimed he only watched the news and, alright-alright, the occasional movie when something tolerable was on.

Claire settled on reruns of some old TV show, though it was more interesting to watch Sylar float logs into the crackling fire. The living room was warm and cozy and she ached to change into her soft pajamas but quickly concluded it would have been too weird.

It was almost midnight when she finally forced herself to get up from the couch before sleep could claim her. She wished Sylar "good night," and stumbled upstairs. The moment her head touched the pillow, her eyelids grew so heavy she must have dosed off instantly. The last coherent thought she had was that she shouldn't feel so safe in this house.

Claire opened her eyes half-expecting a couple of Company agents leaning over her, one of them holding a bloody spike he'd just yanked out of her head, telling her Sylar was already half across the country, but no.

Everything was completely normal. The room was flooded with bright morning sunlight and she could hear birds singing outside so loudly, she was surprised they hadn't woken her. She sat up with effort, glancing at her wristwatch that rested on the nightstand. 9.39 AM. _Time to get up_.

Claire dressed silently and headed for the bathroom, wondering whether Sylar was a late sleeper in which case he was in for an unpleasant surprise because Claire couldn't waste much more time on this assignment. When she opened the door to the hallway, the wave of smell that hit her told her he wasn't. The whole house seemed to be filled with the scent of bacon and toast and coffee. It felt like… it felt like a home.

She crept down the stairs her packed travel bag in hand, imagining that her mom had broken in during the night to cook breakfast. She could almost see her standing in front of the stove, ready to give her that bright smile of hers when she'd step into the kitchen. It was rather strange but rich breakfast always reminded Claire of her mother.

But it was naturally Sylar, clean-shaven and dressed in a button-down shirt as usually, who called her a cheerful "good morning!" as soon as she crossed the kitchen door. "Are you hungry?" he continued, moving chaotically as he was pouring coffee and frying eggs and bacon and _were those hash browns? _all at the same time.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he said innocently when he noticed the stunned look on Claire's face.

She barely had time to mumble "good morning," before Sylar dropped a steaming plate of food before her. It smelled so good that the only feasible answer was, "Yes, in fact I'm starving, thank you."

Sylar set a cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice next to her food before he started shoveling breakfast on another plate. Moments later they were both sitting at the table, eating. Claire couldn't stop staring outside. Yesterday she couldn't care less about the passing landscape as she drove there, but today she felt nostalgic. Sylar was completely lost in some newspaper article. It was a slow morning.

"How did you end up here anyway?" Claire asked just out of the blue. "I mean, how did you decide, 'oh, I think I'm going to move out of New York and to a small town in Texas?' "

Sylar looked up from his newspaper, in thought. "I guess I just got tired of New York," he answered simply. "Too many people, too many temptations, the Company always breathing down my neck. You know, contrary to popular opinion, I just want to have a life and it's not that easy when people keep scowling at you, telling you it's never gonna happen."

Claire hadn't really expected such an honest answer so for a moment she felt oddly speechless, not one nasty comment floating around her head, waiting to get out. "Doesn't it anger you?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

"What do you mean?" he set his newspaper aside and laid his hands on the table, palms down, waiting for Claire to continue. She briefly glanced at the heading that declared there was another picket in Washington tomorrow regarding the legislation for evolved humans.

"I mean," she didn't exactly know what she meant to be truthful, it was just something that had been rattling around in her head for a while. "I mean, you can't change what you've done, all you can do is try to make up for it any way that you can, but people, they don't see it. They still see you as the… uh, still see you like you're the same."

For a moment Claire could see a spark of understanding in his eyes, she couldn't completely explain. But questions always partially described the questioner and she was afraid she'd said too much.

"It used to anger me a lot," he said quietly, playing with the saltshaker before he looked up again. "Then I tried to put myself in their-" his eyes said _your_ "-position. The closest I could come up with was Angela Petrelli," he let out a mirthless laugh. "I know she's you grandmother and all, but I guess it's no secret I hate her with quite some passion."

"The 'put your shotgun against her head and pull the trigger' gag was kind of a giveaway," she smiled darkly, her eyes cold as ice.

"Well she did want to blow up New York City," Sylar pointed out. "And she made me believe… Well, anyway," his voice that had risen in anger dropped back to normal in a split second, "I thought to myself, if Angela would ever come to me and say she was sorry, what she would of course never do, but let's say she did then what would I do? Would I forgive her? Would I _ever_ trust her? No. And if I can't forgive her, then how can I expect other people to forgive me when I've done worse things to them than she ever did to me?"

Claire didn't know how to answer that. He certainly had a point but it suggested there was no way to ever truly redeem oneself, to ever truly find forgiveness. She didn't like that conclusion and not only for his sake. She also noticed for the first time just how given up Sylar appeared. It was almost pathetic.

After breakfast Claire tried to get in contact with the Company again but naturally there was still no signal. Sylar disappeared into his "clock room" mumbling something about a delivery he needed to finish. Claire could only hope they'd get going in time to catch a flight that would get them to New York at a decent hour.

So she wandered around the house while Sylar tinkered with his watches, though Claire couldn't grasp why he bothered to work for money since he could turn stuff into gold whenever he pleased. Another one of his abilities that seemed very convenient, but still not worth the price he'd paid for it, she reminded herself firmly. _Never worth such price_.

Claire decided to invade his study, play what turned out to be snooker instead of pool and raid his liquor cabinet. Sylar had once told her he'd found a way to suppress the regeneration skill enough to feel the effects of alcohol but Claire had never mastered that. She still enjoyed the burning sensation it caused though. It was probably the closest thing to pain she could feel.

She poured herself a generous glassful of scotch and took a big gulp. _Sure Sylar wouldn't mind_. As it was snooker and she didn't really know the rules, she only used the red balls and tried to hit them in the holes with the white one.

An hour passed but the door to the watch room remained shut. Claire didn't dare to bother him there but she did find a radio from the study and used it to blast the oldies station all over the house, adding even some dance moves to the music. She did it partly because she was bored, but mostly just to express her impatience and annoy the hell out of him.

She had to conclude that it didn't work. Sylar exited his den exactly at twelve o'clock when the delivery guy arrived and not a moment before. He handed him two neatly wrapped parcels, signed some papers and after the FedEx van had sped away he announced he was finally ready to go.

He looked so relaxed after his time with his watches, his eyes glimmering with such pride for his work, that Claire thought she might have found the answer for her question before.

Sylar had a duffel bag ready, so he threw both of their things in the car and locked the house up. Claire actually felt a sudden tinge of regret as she sat to the driver's seat, ready to drive away. All in all, it had been good to be back in Texas and part of her could understand perfectly why Sylar seemed so fond of the place. But he would be back here in a few days, while she would be in her small apartment on Manhattan and that was fine too, just… it wasn't a home. Not really.

Her sentimentality was quickly replaced with irritation when the car refused to start. They both stared at each other with puzzlement before Sylar climbed out of his seat and popped the hood.

Claire followed his lead and seconds later they were both staring down at the engine.

"Well, can you fix it?" Claire inquired, crossing her fingers for the answer to be 'yes'. Her patience was really running out.

"Uh," he was looking at the engine so intensely, she was afraid it might burst into fire. "It seems the battery is empty. You must've left a light on or something-" he was silenced by the glare she gave him.

"So can you fix it?"

"From what I can tell, all it needs is a good zap." He smiled raising one of his hands and waving it slightly at her. Claire only rolled her eyes. _Showoff_. "Okay, get back behind the wheel and try to start the engine when I tell you to," he instructed.

She could see the blue light dance on his face for a split second before the engine roared to life. _Thank God._ Sylar jumped in and they were finally pulling away from the house.

They were about half-way down the long driveway when the engine died again. "No freakin way," Claire muttered incredulously.

When Sylar opened the hood once more, Claire knew they were screwed as soon as she saw the look on his face. The amount of smoke rising from the engine might have given her a hint as well.

"Um," Sylar started awkwardly. "I think I zapped it a little too hard. It's, uh, the engine is pretty much toast, I'm sorry."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Claire shouted out in frustration, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. "Alright, we'll just take your car and I'll contact the Company when we get somewhere I can get a signal, let them take care of _this_." She eyed the smoking hood with resentment.

The roar of laughter that welcomed her suggestion left her more at loss then anything. "That car doesn't work, it doesn't even have an engine," Sylar explained when he'd calmed down a bit. "I was supposed to fix it but I didn't have the right parts." Claire could feel her jaw drop.

"So how do you get around? I mean, even you have to go the store and stuff, right?" she was honestly interested and also grasping at straws. "Do you just fly around?"

"Definitely not. I don't want to cause a national incident and you know how well the airspace is monitored these days," he barked another laugh, "My nearest neighbors live three miles away. A disturbance in the airspace would automatically paint a nice red X right on my house."

"So what? You walk?"

Sylar looked like he was about to reveal some huge secret. "I ride a bike of course," he announced with a wide smile. _The bastard found the whole thing funny_.


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay, let's try this again," Sylar said patiently, seemingly somewhere between desperation and amusement. "When I start pedaling, you jump enough to sit on the handlebars. I'll try to help you with telekinesis and, uh, we'll make it work."

They were back on the driveway after Sylar had dragged his bicycle out of the garage. He'd strapped his duffle bag to his back and Claire was clutching her bag in her hands. They'd spent the last twenty minutes trying to figure out how two people could successfully ride one bike and it was finally starting to make sense.

"Uhhh," Claire sighed tiredly, it was half past twelve at noon and the heat was really killing her. "Alright, let's do it," she said determinedly. At first she'd seen his plan as simply mad, but since his old crappy bike had no carrier in the back and the crossbar was in an impossible angle, she'd agreed it was the only realistic way.

"Okay… one, two, three and jump," Sylar dictated as he kicked the bike into motion and started pedaling. Claire managed to hop on the right time and balance herself on the junction of the handlebars, with Sylar's help no doubt. There was a critical moment but she managed not to fall off and she would have probably shouted out in delight if she hadn't been so occupied with holding on to dear life.

Sylar quickened the pace, awkwardly looking past Claire who was literally sitting in his view. It was like driving a car with her sitting on the hood, only the actual sitting space was considerably skimpier.

The bike jumped dangerously on the uneven country road and made Claire suck in a sharp breath every time they rode through a particularly steep hole. Her legs were dangling in a weird position and she was trying to hold on to her bag with one hand and to the handlebar with the other.

They made it all the way down the long driveway, Claire's shouts such as "slow down!" and "we're going to crash!" dying down after the initial shock. When Sylar steered the bike left to the main road, however, their balance faltered and Claire had no choice but to jump off her already shaky position with a startled yelp. Sylar hit the brakes thereafter and they became to a halt once again.

"That was pretty good," he said excitedly, running his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah," she agreed hopefully, "but that was like what? 600 feet? We need to go, uh, how far?"

"Only three miles. That's how far my nearest neighbor lives," he repeated his earlier words, staring down the empty road.

Claire wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "And when we get there… what then?"

"We can borrow the neighbor kid's bike. She owes me that much for helping her with her math homework last month," he spoke as if it had been the most normal thing in the world. Well, it would have been if told by someone else. That was probably why Claire couldn't stop laughing though.

"What?" Sylar asked with a dopey smile on his face. "I'm a good neighbor! What's so surprising about that? It's pretty easy when there's only like three-four houses in the five mile radius. Anyway, a second bike would definitely speed things up and if we're really lucky and Mrs. Colter is at home, she could drive us to town."

Five minutes later they were riding along the road again. It was far easier to get going once they'd succeeded in it once already. Also the road they'd turn onto was wider, paved and thankfully deserted. Claire could even relax a little and enjoy their surroundings since Sylar was the one who had to do all the pedaling.

She still snorted in amusement every now and then. There had certainly been several funny occurrences in the past 24 hours and for some reason they just kept popping up in her head and making her giggle uncontrollably.

"Oh, c'mon Claire," Sylar broke finally, "Can you stop laughing maybe? It's hard to keep the bike on the road when you're shaking with laughter."

"Okay, sorry," she promised, pulling herself together.

They kept going in silence for a while but admiring the view gets boring pretty fast when you move as slowly as they were.

"So," she started teasingly. "Is there a Mr. Colter?"

"Yes," he said sharply, immediately detecting her undertone. "He's a drunk and she works often double shifts, so I've kept an eye on the kid a few times. And before you ask, no, I don't have anyone. Do you?" He panted slightly after his monologue and Claire fought the urge to turn around to see his face.

She had never really stopped to think about Sylar's personal life but since this assignment had sort of drawn her into his life in general, she couldn't help but wonder. That had been her impromptu yet subtle way to bring it up. Or perhaps not that subtle… but she had her answer, hadn't she? _Guess it would be stupid to not answer his counter-inquiry now_.

"West Rosen," she replied dutifully. "He works for the Company too, so maybe you've seen him."

"Um, I don't remember working with him," he said after a short pause, sounding deep in thought.

Claire was lost in thought too. She hadn't _quite_ forgotten the encounter they'd shared in a Stanton Hotel suite the day Nathan had died nor the things he had said, though she hadn't spared a thought on that fabled day for years. Only in her dreams, perhaps, or nightmares rather. But now, in hindsight, it felt as if the man in that suite had been someone else, definitely not the same man who had cooked her breakfast this morning. And after his "reformation", he'd never even attempted to lay a finger on her. How can one person change so much?

Claire could feel his eyes on the back of her head.

"No, West's in the Communications department, not an agent," Claire said absent-mindedly after she realized he was likely expecting her to specify.

"Doesn't have the stomach for it?"

"I wouldn't say that," Claire stammered.

"One of us or one of them?" he continued his interrogation casually, making Claire regret she'd brought up the subject in the first place.

"He can fly. And he's registered with a permit to use his ability in full… unlike_ somebody_ else, obviously, which makes him kind of perfect for assignments that require meeting face-to-face."

"I suppose," he said with finality that clearly signaled the end of that conversation topic.

Claire was aware that he was firmly against the whole registration process of evolved humans, especially the chipping part. Nothing quite like it, then a tracking device lodged in your forearm, to make you feel like a criminal. She had dug up hers as soon as it was planted and disappeared from the sight of general public. West, though, had kept his since it was the only way he could still fly around and he didn't really have anything to hide as he worked for the Communications department, the one completely legitimate part of the Company.

Almost ten minutes passed without either of them uttering a word. It was a comfortable silence, though, or at least not an uncomfortable one.

"How much longer before we're there?" Claire asked, knowing perfectly well she sounded like a spoiled brat. She was tired and sweaty and would have killed for a glass of water. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Not much," he said, breathing more heavily than before. "Even in this tempo 20 minutes tops, I'd say."

Claire closed her eyes to the bright sunlight. "So what do people do on road trips?" she thought aloud.

"From what I know, they play word games and sing annoying songs," he provided. "But I think we should have a car to qualify as an all-American road trip."

"I think you're right, Sylar," she agreed lazily.

"Gabriel," he corrected automatically as if it had been a grammatical error. "Car radio would be welcome right about now, I'll admit though."

Claire nodded, her eyes still closed. Before she could stop herself, she began singing. "On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair…" she hummed, tapping her fingers against the handlebar.

Sylar chuckled as she kept murmuring the song. She wasn't very good but decent enough to carry a tune. When she reached the chorus he suddenly joined in, bellowing the words so loudly, Claire dropped her bag and they had to stop, both shaking with laughter.

"Look, we're almost there," Sylar pointed at a white one-storey building at the end of the road. Claire had barely noticed they'd turned off the main road.

They walked the rest of the way, Sylar pushing the bike along the road.

As they got closer, Claire could see the white color had flaked off in time but otherwise the house seemed rather neatly kept. It had a garage attached to the main building and a few tall oak trees scattered around the front yard to cast pleasant shade.

Sylar climbed up to the porch. "No serial-killer-jokes… in fact, don't mention abilities at all," he warned Claire quickly before he knocked on the door. Moments later she heard footsteps from inside and the door opened revealing a young girl with muddy brown hair. She must have been about 11 or 12, wearing a plain tee-shirt, jeans and a look of utter surprise.

"Mr. Gray?" she asked, her eyes slowly shifting from Sylar to Claire.

"Hello, Jenny," he said politely. "This is-" he gestured Claire "-my, um, colleague Claire Bennet."

"Oh," was all she managed and then "Come in, please," after a short pause.

Jenny led them to a modest kitchen, scurrying about to pour them some water.

"I take your mother isn't at home?" Sylar started.

"No," she said, taking out two glasses.

"Ah, anyway, the reason we're here is because Claire's car broke down and I thought we might borrow your bike to get to town."

Jenny turned around and Claire wondered how one person could look so surprised all the time. But then again she probably wasn't the sharpest pencil in the box hence the need for help with math assignments.

"But I don't have a bike," she squeaked apologetically.

It was the second time that day Claire literally felt her jaw drop. She turned to Sylar, only to discover he looked absolutely dumb-stuck with his mouth hanging open.

"What?" he gaped. "I was so sure she had one," he whispered to Claire, still stunned.

"Seriously, is this some twisted chapter of 'The misadventures of an ex-serial killer and…" she hissed quietly enough for Jenny not to hear her.

"…and a grumpy cheerleader?" he japed half-heartedly as Jenny set a glass of water in front of him and handed another one to Claire.

"Maybe my dad could give you a lift?" Jenny suggested scratching her head. _When a door falls shut, a window opens up, indeed_.

The two guests gulped down their water and the three of them headed to the living room. Claire noted that Sylar didn't look nearly as enthusiastic as she did. Soon she discovered the reason.

Mr. Colter was stretched out on the couch, a beer bottle resting on his stomach, watching TV. Had his eyes not moved from the screen to measure them up, Claire might have thought he was dead… or sleeping.

He was probably in mid-thirties, round-faced and bald-headed with small beady eyes. Not a kind man, Claire could tell in an instant.

"Dad, Mr. Gr-" Jenny started only to be interrupted by his father instantly.

"I heard, honey. As you can see I'm a little busy here, so you can lead our _guests_ out now."

Jenny looked at them helplessly, shrugging, as if to say "I tried, sorry".

"Oh, how sweet it would be to have Parkman's ability right about now," Sylar murmured to Claire, his fists clenched. Though, she wouldn't admit it aloud, gosh, was he right. Mr. Colter was clearly an ass and not only to them but probably to his daughter as well, even if he expressed his thoughts in a nice voice.

"You heard me," Mr. Colter continued in his southern drawl, eyes fixed on the TV again. "I don't care if you whip out a wand and vanish into thin air like Harry fuckin' Potter-" he laughed so hard, he started coughing "-get going."

"You wanna see a magic trick?" Sylar said through his teeth, sneering in a way that threatened to bring up some unpleasant memories for Claire. And reminded her he could still look pretty damn intimidating when he wanted to.

Mr. Colter turned his watery eyes on him suspiciously. Claire expected Sylar to send him flying across the room, pinning him to a wall, or maybe use some other god-awful ability on him but instead he snatched up the beer bottle that still stood on Colter's belly and threw it out of the open window.

Their _generous_ host jumped off the couch like someone had bitten him.

"It magically disappeared," Sylar said with mock surprise. "Now that you're out of beer and need to go to the store anyway, I'm sure you won't mind giving us a ride."

At first Mr. Colter looked as if he might go berserk but then, against all odds, he burst into laughter.

Ten minutes later he reversed his wreck of a car out of the garage while Sylar wheeled his bicycle in, promising to come and get it once he's back from his "business trip".

Claire asked Jenny if she could make an urgent call to her employer since they had a land-line telephone (one that Sylar, no doubt, had ripped out from his house). Jenny led her to the phone torturing her with questions about watches on the way since she supposed to be Sylar's "colleague". Thankfully Claire had become rather good at dodging bothersome subjects.

"Hello, it's Bennet," Claire spoke in her formal tone, when the call was answered.

"Bennet, are you alright? We've been alerted that you may be in trouble after communication was lost."

"I'm fine, so call off the dogs. I have the target and we'll be in NY by tonight," she answered, scanning the corridor to be sure Jenny wasn't eavesdropping.

After she was done, Claire said goodbye to the girl and climbed to the backseat beside Sylar since the passenger seat was occupied by a crate of empty beer bottles.

As soon as she closed the door, Mr. Colter sped away, waving to his daughter who sat on the porch waving back to them.

Soon enough Claire found herself clutching the car seat. Mr. Colter's driving style was not exactly safe as more than once the car strayed to oncoming traffic. Fortunately the main road was still mostly deserted. Still fidgeting with the car radio and lighting a cigarette while driving 100 miles per hour - not so reassuring.

"I've never been happier I can't die," Claire whispered to Sylar who answered her with a nod and a dashing smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Thanks for reviewing! And I will try to update more frequently in the future (examination period soon to be over!).**

**There was also a question about pairings in this story. I presume you referred to the main characters (since there's sort of a Claire-West thing already) and to be honest, this answer is harder to give than it was to write the following chapter. The simplest would be – I don't know exactly, I'm not sure how far I'm going to take this story. So let's just see what'll happen…**

The car came to a stop in front of a shabby liquor store in the heart of the little town. Somehow, Claire couldn't exactly explain, they hadn't ended up in a horrific traffic accident. Still, when she climbed out of the vehicle she could hardly stand up straight for her legs felt like noodles.

Mr. Colter got out of his seat, closing the door with a loud thump. His sight seemed to linger a little too long on the neon sign on the store window that declared cheerfully "Booze 24h" to be considered healthy. But then, suddenly, he turned around and stretched out his arm rather awkwardly, tearing his eyes from the store, to say goodbye to his companions.

"Thanks a lot, Jim," Sylar nodded to their bald driver, accepting the hand Mr. Colter was offering him.

"No problem," he replied with a crooked smile since he hadn't really been very enthusiastic about their trip to town. "Just next time," he continued, eyes narrowing, "try not to waste any beer in the progress."

The two men shared a short laugh before parting their own way. Claire had barely time to utter a hasty farewell to Mr. Colter who disappeared to the liquor store thereafter.

"Strange man," Claire sighed following Sylar's lead down the street. He still managed to walk impossibly fast although he carried both of their bags.

"Don't get me started," he agreed, smiling to himself as if he'd just recalled some funny story starring Mr. Colter.

It took them about five minutes to get to the bus station. To be precise, there was no real station to speak of, simply a bus stop sign and a bench to sit on. Sylar proceeded going through the departures board, his frown growing deeper by the second.

When he was finished, he turned around to face Claire, who had taken seat on the bench, dangling her feet in the air out of boredom. "Alright, tell me, which ones first – the good news or the bad news?"

Claire didn't like where this was going. "Well… I suppose I'll take the bad ones first. It's sort of a tradition, wouldn't you say?" she said cautiously.

"As you wish," he said in a mockingly melodramatic voice that only managed to irritate Claire. "The bad news would be that the next bus goes at 05:45." For a moment they both stayed silent, him staring at her, probably waiting for her to explode.

"Let me guess," Claire said mirthlessly, "the last bus went like five minutes ago?"

"Twenty, actually, but still, pretty good guess."

"_Not_ funny," she snapped at him. "So tell me the good news."

The boyish smirk on Sylar's face was quickly replaced by an innocent smile. "There's happy hour in the local bar."

"_That's_ the good news?" Claire found herself shouting but there was no anger in her voice. She was too tired for anger. The car had been hot as a hell hole and all the way she'd dreamed of a comfortable bus with a functioning air-conditioner. "Honestly, Sylar, this is not funny _at all_." For once he used his alias purely to annoy him when most of the time she simply forgot it wasn't his real name.

As per usual, Sylar seemed to detect her intentions and refused to give her the satisfaction of taking the bait. He did give her a condemning headshake, though, before he started walking away from the bus stop, both of their bags still in his hands.

"Where are you going?" Claire bellowed, straightening up. He didn't stop, in fact he didn't even turn around to look at her. "Oh, come on! This is counterproductive!"

When Sylar vanished behind a street corner, Claire was left with no choice but to get up. She actually had to jog a little to catch up with his stubborn comrade who was, just like she had predicted, wearing a victorious smirk once she reached him.

Apparently the local bar was called the Dancing Hound which didn't really make much sense to Claire, but as Sylar pointed out, "why can't hounds dance?"

The place was half-empty at that time of the day, but there were a few people scattered around the spacious room that included a long bar counter and numerous round tables. Sylar took a seat by the counter and Claire followed to do the same.

"Gabe, my man, what will it be?" a melodic baritone voice called from the back of the bar. The barkeep was a tall sturdy man with the richest pair of sideburns Claire had ever encountered. That coupled with the small black vest he was wearing and the fact he was in the process of polishing a glass made him look like he'd stepped out of some weird picture book.

"A beer for me, Jer," Sylar stated, then turning to Claire expectantly. Her eyes skidded from one bottle to another, not knowing what she wanted. A part of her wanted to get wasted but she knew that, firstly, she wasn't capable of getting drunk and, secondly, even if she'd be, it would be foolish and unprofessional – she was on an assignment after all. No, she wouldn't get wasted solely out of boredom and heat exhaustion.

"Same," she decided finally. A cold beer would certainly wake her from this state of numbness.

"That's the spirit," Sylar chuckled, "live a little. Because you look like you've stepped out of the "Night of the living dead", no offence."

Claire had to suppress a laugh. She glanced at her wristwatch while the bartender poured their drinks. "So we have a little more than three hours to kill. Any ideas?"

"Well, we _could_ chat," Sylar suggested, picking up the beer glass that had appeared in front of him to take a long sip.

"Chat?"

"Yes, for example you could tell me how Noah and your mother- what was her name? Sandra? -are doing."

"Oh, how sweet, you want me to tell you about the two of my parents you haven't killed? Isn't that a jolly way to spend time?" Only after the words had left Claire's mouth did she realize just how wrong they were.

Sylar visibly flinched at her comment, his eyes growing to the size of saucers.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," Claire said quickly. "You were trying to be nice and I'm acting like a complete bitch." She attempted to untangle the knot that had suddenly formed in her stomach and realized with utter shock that it was guilt she was feeling, genuine guilt for crossing that unchartered line between acceptable and cruel. _When did she start feeling guilt for anything she did to him?_

They sat in silence drinking their beer for a while. It wasn't by any means Claire's favorite beverage, but a cold beer on a day as hot as this was definitely most refreshing.

"How do you do it?" Claire asked, eying the golden liquid in her glass and the countless little bubbles that rose from it. "How can you make yourself feel the effects of alcohol?" Truthfully, it had always been one of the things she'd kind of missed. Not that she'd want to abuse alcohol or couldn't have fun without it, no, but whenever everybody around her got drunk and had a good time, she felt somehow out of loop. Drunken people seemed simply stupid to a sober one and it was rather lonely to be the only one who couldn't find the jokes funny.

"I don't know exactly," Sylar ruptured her train of thought. "You have to concentrate on… um, I suppose it's easier for me since I have active powers too, so I know how it feels to control them. You have to find your own way and when you do it comes pretty naturally," he explained absent-mindedly, sliding his beer glass from one hand to another. When he looked up again, a small smile appeared on his face, "the good thing, though – you may get drunk but you'll never have to bear a single hangover."

This time Claire didn't try to stop the laughter that wanted to escape her throat but let it out freely. She raised her glass and announced "So we may never learn the tortures of a single hangover!"

Sylar chuckled as he tipped his glass at her.

An hour later the duo was in a much better mood already. Claire wasn't completely sure if the drinking was working, so she swapped her beer glass for a bottle of rum. Sylar suggested they could play darts and they moved their little party to the back of the bar where the dartboard was hanging on the wall.

"Alright, look at this," Sylar said, beer glass in one hand and a red dart in the other. "This is how it's done." His eyes narrowed as he tried to aim the dart at the bull's eye, moving his throwing hand slowly back and forth.

"And no cheating!" Claire screeched before he could release the dart. "If you have some wonder-skill for that – off limits!" She sat on a ladder back chair, the rum bottle and two shot glasses next to her and a clipboard in her hands to mark down the results.

Finally Sylar let the dart fly and it barely hit in the board. "Dammit!" he swore under his breath.

"So what _do_ I see?" Claire said in a teasing voice after she'd had a good laugh. "Nine points, is it?" She marked the number down.

"I'm just being a gentleman, giving you a head start," Sylar said as he approached the table to pour out two shots.

Claire set the clipboard aside, downed her shot and grabbed one of the blue darts. "Okay, I haven't played this game for years," she mused. "But I'm still going to beat your ass. You know why?"

Sylar's eyes sparkled with amusement in the dimly lit bar. "Why don't you tell me?"

"I have no idea," she grinned. _Was she getting drunk?_ She didn't _feel_ drunk… But the truth was she hadn't had so much fun in ages. The past few years had gone by so fast and Claire hadn't taken a single day of vacation. Always one mission after another. And when she was home, West was usually on one of his assignments. It was almost impossible to find time they could spend together. Her life was passing by her and she hadn't even noticed. _Good thing she lived forever._ But then again… West wouldn't.

"So let's see that winning throw of yours!" Once again it was Sylar's voice that brought her back to reality.

Claire threw her dart, one eye closed and brow furrowed in concentration. "Triple ten!" she yelled throwing her hands in the air. "That's three times ten equals thirty."

Sylar pouted and mimicked brushing away an imaginary tear as he wrote down the number.

If someone had told Claire about, uh, two days ago that she'd be drinking rum and playing darts with her former _arch enemy_, she would have had the poor lad institutionalized. But apparently miracles do happen or at least very improbable things.

Another hour passed and the darts started to hit the board less frequently. Claire had to conclude that her rum experiment was working, even if just a little. She felt mildly tipsy, though considering the amount of liquor they'd consumed she should have been dancing on table tops (it was the _Dancing _Hound after all).

Sylar, who was much bigger than Claire, seemed certainly more under the influence than her. Claire's only real question was: how the hell was he beating her at darts? Especially since he had tripped over a chair and knocked over a table when heading to the bathroom no more than ten minutes ago.

"Okay, I'll admit, this isn't working out the way I had hoped," she announced after one of her darts somehow ended up in Sylar's beer glass.

"I concur," Sylar agreed trying to receive the small object from his glass. Only his hand was too big to fit into the slim glass so Claire nicked it from his hands and fished the poor dart out.

"I say we move to the pool table," she suggested, grabbing the rum bottle by the neck.

"Couldn't agree more. I'm scared you might start throwing these darts at me otherwise."

They spent the third hour of their waiting time around the pool table. Sylar had ordered yet another glass of beer and Claire noticed he had started to mouth the words of the songs playing in the background in between his turns.

"Honestly, I thought you didn't drink on principal," she remarked as she circled the table, assessing her situation.

"Huh?" he chuckled but there was odd curiosity in his voice. "Why so?"

Claire bowed lower to take her shot. "I guess you always seemed like, um, a man who wanted, no, _needed_ to be in control. Later, when I found out you were a watchmaker, it somehow made sense. I mean watches – time is what controls us and you literally fix _time_pieces. Also I don't think it's something you can do with shaky hands."

Sylar looked almost impressed and that's how Claire knew she was right. Apparently quitting murdering people of all things had driven him to drink.

A loud _smack!_ pierced the air when the cue ball hit the red 3 that obediently rolled to the pocket. Claire could feel a proud grin curving her lips.

"Nice move, but you didn't think ahead and now you're in trouble" Sylar said, pointing at the position of her solid-colored balls. "You always have to think one step, better yet, two steps ahead."

"Is that something you learned when running from the police _and_ the Company?" Claire quipped just before she executed another shot.

The yellow number 1 stopped merely quarter of an inch from the pocket, making her sigh with frustration.

"You could say that," Sylar chuckled, giving her the I-told-you-so look at the same time, "but playing a lot of snooker lately has probably been more helpful in that department. And by the way, if I remember correctly, weren't you the one who brought down a plane full of government's prisoners, helped that rebel kid and fled to Mexico? So you should be pretty good at thinking ahead by these standards…"

"Well," Claire looked at him, her eyebrows raised as she thought about it. "What I did consisted less of thinking ahead and more of acting on instinct," she finished with a hearty laugh. "Gosh, our lives sound like soap operas."

Sylar spent most of the game in the lead, but that only made snatching the victory from him at the last second that much sweeter for Claire.

She celebrated by downing three shots in a row and he ordered her a huge plate of what he called "victory fries". They spent their last moments eating, before Sylar settled their check (Claire didn't even bother to argue about that, knowing it would be totally pointless) and they strolled out of the Dancing Hound to catch the bus.

After three hours in a dark bar, the bright Texan sunlight almost blinded Claire. The air wasn't as hellish as it had been around noon but it was still hot outside.

When Claire finally collapsed into a comfy bus seat, she flipped out her cell phone with a satisfied sigh and texted the Company to book them plane tickets to New York. Sylar had already pulled out a book, though it seemed he was having trouble concentrating on reading it in his half-drunken state.

"So the rum worked?" he asked, setting his book aside.

"A little. I tried to concentrate on feeling it and stuff, it really _is_ hard to explain," she backed up his previous statement. "But I think I got the essence of it."

"Got to keep practicing," Sylar said in a sing-song voice, laughing, as he turned back to his book.

They got to the airport around 8 o'clock, little more than an hour before their flight. During the bus trip all the effects of alcohol faded away and Claire felt rather brisk when they walked to the terminal. But Sylar dragged his feet and demanded that they'd have a sobering coffee before they proceeded to their gate.

Check-in and security control were annoying as always. Claire was simply too used to them to get frustrated due to her frequent travelling schedule. All that Sylar said was, "Those cheap bastards could have gotten us business class tickets since they're making me work for them against my own will. But _no_. What a bunch of cheapskates."

Once her belt was buckled and the plane started to move, Claire felt peace settle over her – the mission was basically accomplished or, well, at least the first half of it. They still needed to get to Boston and very soon, but right now all she thought about was that they'd be in New York before midnight.

For Claire it was going home… from her past home (or home state in the least, Texas did always represent her childhood to her). And for Sylar it was exactly the opposite. _Pretty weird._

Claire stared out of the small oval window as the plane took off from the ground. The sky was clear, without a cloud in sight, so she watched as the city below them reduced to nothing but a clump of bright lights in the darkening evening.

"So, are you ready for…" Claire turned to her companion only to discover that Sylar's head had fallen to one side, his mouth was half-open and he was snoring lightly. _Alright then…_


	6. Chapter 6

Everybody knew Matt Parkman hated Sylar. Among the agents two rumors circled about how it came to be. The first of them involving a tow-truck driver named Hank and a tire iron and the second one a roaring fireplace and Parkman's wife. Both were unconfirmed, of course, but still inspired stifled giggles whenever Sylar came in for an assignment.

As Claire and Sylar walked down an empty corridor in the Company's New York facility, their steps echoing loudly, she found herself debating within her mind whether to verify the rumors or not. But in the end she simply couldn't summon the courage to bluntly ask him right before they were about to step into Matt Parkman's office.

Parkman had made quite a career in the Company during the years after the Central Park incident. Now he had been the head of Claire's department – Surveillance and Control, for over three years. Their mission was to make sure that evolved humans wouldn't inflict harm on others and contrariwise so Parkman's former career as a police officer made him a perfectly suitable man for the job.

It was way past midnight when Claire knocked on the familiar door of her superior. The lights were still on and no longer then a split second after the knock, Parkman's voice boomed through the door, "Come in, Bennet."

Sylar quirked an eyebrow at her as if to say "do we have to?". Claire answered with a firm nod before she pushed the door open and entered the modest office. The cabinet was unconventionally small for a head of a division, windowless and furnished as scantly as possible.

Matt Parkman sat behind a massive desk covered with files, reports and all other possible documents. The table lamp provided barely any light away from the desk and Parkman looked like he was about to launch an interrogation. To Claire it seemed that he looked older and more tired with every time she saw him. He wasn't the man he used to be. The years as an agent and leading a division after that had taken its toll – he was colder and meaner, better at his job but not the moral and compassionate man he'd once been.

"Alright, let's get on with it," he said in a voice deprived of any emotion after his late night guests had taken seat. "I had _hoped_ you'd get here sooner so you could take the red-eye to Boston, but since it's so late, you'll have to go first thing in the morning." He slid a file over his large desk so Claire could pick it up.

"There're plane tickets and all the relevant information on the target, though your briefing should be sufficient enough already, agent Bennet," he explained without casting a glimpse at Sylar. "You leave at 06:45 and I expect a report no later than at noon."

Then his eyes finally shifted to the dark haired man across from him. "Bennet, I'll take it you'll manage to inform him of anything important if you haven't already…" he said with noticeable distaste, "and keep him in check, there're not many agents who are willing to work with him anymore, as legendary as he may be."

"Well, maybe you should stop calling me out here," Sylar said with a tight smile. "I'd much rather spend my time differently."

For a moment a hint of a smile appeared on Parkman's face that Claire could only interpret as the joy of having such power over the infamous ex-killer. "Since I thought you would leave immediately, no arrangements were made for accommodation," he turned to Sylar, "but you can stay at level 1, no locks, naturally. And I've heard the beds are much more comfortable there than what you're used to at level 5."

Claire had to bite her tongue not to burst into laughter. The expression on Sylar's face was absolutely murderous.

"Is that your understanding of a joke, Parkman? Because if not, you must be insane if you think-" he growled.

Before things could get out of hand, Claire interfered, "you can stay at my place, so don't sweat it. West is out of town anyway and I happen to have a big couch."

Sylar opened his mouth, still not satisfied with Parkman's behavior, but was once again intersected by Claire. "We should go now," she said, getting on her feet while sparing a side-glance to her boss to be sure he was okay with the whole outcome. "We need to get up early tomorrow."

She approached the door, Sylar obediently following her lead when Parkman spoke again. "Before you go, one more thing," his eyes were fierce as he aimed his glare at Sylar once again, "If you _ever_ ignore the Company's call again, you're going straight back to level 5 where you belong. This is your last warning. Good night."

With those words ringing in her ears, Claire marched down the empty hallways again, his trusty sidekick on her heels. Neither of them was in the mood to talk.

They managed to exit the Company's building without encountering a soul. While heading to the parking lot, Claire noticed Tracy Strauss walking towards the facility. She was wearing her usual black business jacket and a tight pencil skirt plus carrying an impressive heap of folders.

"Agent Bennet," she said with a respectful nod, then looking up at Sylar with a smile, "and Gabriel. Haven't seen you for a while. Return of the prodigal son?"

"Well, yes, once again I've been roped into the Company's business," he said matching her smile. "I see some things haven't changed, you still run to the office in the middle of the night." Claire simply kept looking from one to another.

Tracy Strauss emitted a light laughter, "Another communications emergency." A ringing phone disturbed their conversation and Strauss awkwardly shifted the load of folders to one hand while receiving her cell phone from her purse with the other. She spared a quick glance at the screen, "Oh, this is important, I really gotta run. You might have heard that there's another demonstration in Washington in less than 12 hours and our rights need to be protected." She answered the phone while mouthing good-bye to them and started walking towards the building again.

"I didn't know you were so familiar with the ice queen," Claire said as they sat into her Company issued car. And Tracy Strauss was _literally_ an ice queen.

"She helped me with my court case years ago," he said nonchalantly, obviously trying to avoid the subject.

"NO, wait!" Claire said with a huge smirk spreading across her face, "You and Tracy Strauss! Whoa! This is just _too _good!"

"What?" Sylar's head snapped up, his eyes regarding her with some caution. "_Where_ do you take this stuff from?" he asked somewhat accusingly.

"Oh, come on, you're so busted. The moment she called you Gabriel I had you. Nobody calls you Gabriel! It just sort of sounds wrong," she explained between chuckles. "And I detect these things from half a mile away."

Sylar dragged his palm down his face seemingly willing her to shut up. "My name sounds wrong? That's your evidence? What should it be then?"

"I don't know. Lucifer?" she smiled innocently before bursting into laughter. "Okay, okay, I'm just kidding, sorry!" she muttered frantically, trying to pull herself together. She didn't even know why it was so funny to her, maybe because he tried to avoid the topic with such stubborn persistence. "So give me the details?" she asked, producing the sweetest smile she could muster.

"I'd rather have you insert a six inch steel spike into my switch-off spot," he answered with the nicest smile.

"Alright then," Claire said, starting the engine. It was more than clear that this topic was off limits. They exited the Company's parking lot, driving through the New York night.

"Wait, you said Strauss helped you with your court case? You mean the one regarding your mother's murder?" Claire inquired. "I didn't know she was a lawyer as well…"

Sylar was staring out the window. It reminded Claire a little of herself when she was in Texas. He was home again, trying to notice every alteration, making sure the place hadn't changed beyond recognition.

"She's not, but she knows the law pretty well."

"So she got the charges dropped? I mean you were guilty after all," she said warily, not wanting to upset her companion again.

"Actually the case was dropped due to lack of evidence. Apparently the key to the case – the murder weapon – was misplaced and couldn't be found in the evidence," he said his eyes still clued to the passing urban scenery. "Tracy's got a lot of connections. She knew somebody who knew somebody who had access to the evidence locker."

"Oh." He sounded a little sad so Claire decided to drop the subject.

Streets were half-empty that late at night, so they arrived at Claire's place rather quickly. She spent five minutes searching for her keys and when she finally got the door open, they threw their bags on the floor, both falling to the couch.

Claire's apartment wasn't big, but you could say it was big enough. It had a conjoint living-room and kitchen and a spacious bedroom. When Sylar seemed to prefer dark wood and antique then Claire's taste was simple – light colors and minimalistic furnishing.

"Um, I don't really have an extra blanket," Claire said, getting up to go through her cabinets.

"I'm fine, really. I'll manage," Sylar said, his head laid back and his eyes closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Claire dropped a checkered plaid and a pillow on his lap, which made him open his eyes. "So West doesn't mind you having another guy stay overnight?" he said with thinly veiled amusement in his voice.

"He knows you're the last guy on earth he should feel threatened by," she countered carelessly, now going though her kitchen cupboards. "By the way, if you're hungry then all I have is cereal."

Sylar raised his eyebrows and Claire could easily catch his meaning – he was at least ten times more powerful than West, but then again, that was not what she'd been referring to and he knew it.

They ate cereal as Claire flipped through the file Matt Parkman had given her.

"Ready for a briefing?" she asked Sylar.

"Uh-uh," he replied his mouth full of cereal.

"Okay. Five days ago there was an explosion in the suburban area of Boston. A private residence was completely destroyed. Otherwise it wouldn't be our business, but the owner of the house-" she dragged her finger over the document until she found what she was looking for- "Corey Kenrick, happens to be on our list of people with specific genetic marker that indicates he probably has an ability. No bodies were found on the scene but no-one's seen the owner ever since. Also the cause of the explosion is undetermined but the chance of this being an accident is ruled out. So we _really_ need to know what happened. If it was Kenrick who caused the blast, he may be dangerous. But we have information about some pretty radical movements that operate in Boston and might have been responsible."

"So we just go to the scene, I touch some stuff and that's it?" Sylar summed up light-heartedly.

"Yes," Claire sighed rolling her eyes as she took another mouthful of her already soggy cereal.

They took turns using the bathroom. Claire went first, soaking in the shower for almost thirty minutes before saying a hasty 'good night' to Sylar and retreating to her bedroom. When she finally crawled to her bed her only wish was that she wouldn't have to wake up so damn early in the morning.

She could hear the bathroom door closing and then the water running. About ten minutes later the water stopped. She heard him exiting the bathroom and… _was he putting his shoes on? Was that the front door closing?_

Claire jumped out of the bed, bursting into the living-room. The plaid was still on the couch, neatly folded, and Sylar was gone.

"_Fuck_," she muttered to herself getting dressed as quickly as she could. She ran like a bolt of lightning down the stairs and through the double doors of her apartment building, panting heavily as she stopped to scan her surroundings. The cool night air hit her in the face, leaving her breathless just for a moment. Then she spotted him walking down the street. _Where the hell was he going?_

At first she thought about crying after him and giving him a good scolding for taking off like that, but in the end curiosity prevailed and she decided to follow him instead.

Sylar walked with long strides, his shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets, so Claire had to almost run to keep up with him. He stopped for a moment to purchase something from a kiosk before he dove down the stairs to the subway to catch a train.

He exited in some station in Brooklyn, which left Claire gaping with puzzlement. She knew he once lived in Queens when he was still just a regular watchmaker… but Brooklyn?

She stayed behind, keeping in the shadows, as he followed Sylar along the streets of Brooklyn. He didn't go far from the subway station, 10 minutes perhaps. He came to a stop on a dimly lit street and sat down on the curb across the street from some old closed shop.

Orange light illuminated his face as he lit a cigarette, blowing a huge cloud of white smoke skywards. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?" he said just loud enough for Claire to hear, gazing at the empty windows of the dark shop.

"Shouldn't you?" she said as she walked to him and sat on the curb as well.

"Do you know that we don't _really_ need sleep? It's just a habit, but we can go without it. And I had a quick nap on the plane."

"So you don't sleep? _Why?_" Claire felt somewhat astonished though she kept her voice indifferent. She had tested her ability to quite some lengths – cut off her toe and gone without food, but she'd never thought about ditching sleep or that it would even be an option.

"I try not to. It's a hard habit to kick, though. But _why_ do I do it? For the same reason you wake up covered in cold sweat in the middle of the night."

"Gosh, I'm not even gonna ask how you know about it, because it's _beyond _creepy, but I get your point." And she really did. Because even after all these years Claire was still haunted by nightmares. Sometimes they were about Sylar, even though she knew he was no threat to her anymore. Sometimes they were of other things, of her mom and dad, of Peter and Emma, but most often of that night in Central Park. She was haunted by what had happened to her just as much as by the consequences of her own actions. That must have been the first time Claire got actual proof that Sylar had a conscience too after all…

"Didn't know you smoked," she pointed out after a short pause, still trying to figure out why he was here in the first place.

"I don't really. I used to. It's a great distraction. Every time I used to feel like I can't do this, that I might lose it, I had a cigarette. First I must've smoked like two or three packs a day," he laughed softly, never turning his gaze from the building across the street. "And then with time less and less. But I thought I might need one tonight. It's not like it can harm my health."

"Oh." It sounded stupid. "Why did you come here? I mean I can't figure it out for the life of me."

"_Really?_" Claire realized it amused him. She looked around for a while before she finally got it. The writing on the dusty shop window announced: Gray & Sons.

"You own this place," Claire said a little skeptically. The shop looked like it had been deserted for a while.

"Yes. But I haven't been here for a _very_ long time. Wow… now that I think about it, I haven't been here since 2006."

"Why?"

"Well," he started, his brow furrowed, "I guess it's sort of an altar to my former life."

"And let _me_ guess – you hate your former life."

Sylar snorted at that and took another drag from his cigarette. "I did," he admitted, looking at the asphalt now. "I was a loser, a no-one. I hated who I was. But since then I've learned that it's better to be a nobody than a homicidal maniac."

"Who would've thought," Claire said sarcastically, but her voice was gentle. She felt like she should've been angry. He had no right to tell her about his pain, no right to make excuses for what he had done. But, as it so often seemed to be lately, there was no anger, only a tinge of sadness as she vaguely wondered what could drive a man to become such a monster.

"I wanted to be somebody else _so_ badly," he continued, though it seemed he was talking more to himself than to her. "And now. Now I wish I could recapture what it felt to be innocent, good." He dug through his pocket fishing out a small metal object. At a closer inspection Claire noted that it was a key lying on his open palm.

"You want to go in?" she asked. He thought for a long moment before he squeezed his palm to a fist and stuffed the key back to his pocket.

"No. I just wanted to see the place again," he said as he put out the cigarette stub.

"Nostalgia, huh?"

He nodded, an odd smile dancing on his lips. "Do you want to tell me about West?" he suddenly asked out of the blue, turning to face her at last. "You haven't called her once in two days and in your apartment there were no pictures of him, I saw nothing that might belong to him."

_You don't have pictures of anybody_, Claire thought to herself bitterly, but he was right. "We're taking a break. A long one, I suppose, since he moved out last week," she said her voice barely audible, yet still sarcastic. That was one thing she hadn't fully admitted even to herself yet. And she had thought that Sylar seemed pathetic… pot meet kettle, indeed. Why_ did he always have to be so perceptive?_

"Why'd you lie about it?"

"I didn't lie. You could tell, remember, _genius_? I just left some facts out."

They stared at each other for a while before starting to laugh.

"You see, Claire, _everything_ changes," Sylar said, "- you, me, West, Parkman, our relationships, our motives, our desires, _everybody_ and _everything_. I think that's why we look into the past, trying to find something to hold on to."

Then, without warning, he stood up and extended his arm to Claire to help her up. She accepted it and was pulled to her feet with ease. They started walking back towards the subway station and Claire found herself agreeing with Sylar – everything changes.


	7. Chapter 7

"Claire?"

_She opened her eyes. Slowly. It was warm and bright. She was in her room, in her bed, and it were his father's eyes, sparkling behind his horn-rimmed glasses, that welcomed her._

"_Wake up, honey," he whispered, stroking her hair softly._

"_You're back from your trip!" Claire said with a huge grin, jumping up to give him a hug._

"_Yes, I got back earlier," he said, holding her tight to his chest. "You're mother is making pancakes and Jackie came by about some school project."_

_They went downstairs together, Claire not bothering to change out of her pink pajamas. The smell that greeted them on the stairs was incredible._

_Her mom stood in the kitchen flipping pancakes with the warmest smile on her face._

"Claire?"

_She turned around to find Jackie standing in the doorframe. _But, no, this wasn't right…_ blood was trickling down her forehead from a thin gash that ran across her brow. It dripped on her cheerleading outfit and left small red droplets on her mother's flawless parquet floor. And her eyes… Claire had never seen somebody look so scared, so terrified._

"Honestly, do I have to check the back of your head?

Claire's head snapped up, her whole body jolting as if zapped. She gasped for air. The dream had been so real.

"Good morning, sleepy head," Sylar said, handing her a plastic cup of coffee, "we're here."

Claire looked outside. The car had stopped on a suburban street that would have looked completely normal if not for the empty site of the explosion. The only thing that was left of the residence was the chimney that was blackened by the fire but had somehow withstood the blast.

Detective Brooks, their contact in the Boston Police Department, who had been driving the car, turned around to make sure his companions were ready to go. "There shouldn't be anybody on the scene, but if we run into someone, I made you documentation that confirms you're private consultants," he said in a nervous voice, handing each of them a plastic card.

Brooks possessed no special powers himself, but he was _very_ interested in the bribe the Company was paying him to "help out a little". Tracy Strauss's communications campaign had achieved success within legal limits, but the ice queen had simultaneously built a foundation to an extremely convenient web of informants and snitches that was at least as lucrative.

Claire climbed out from the back seat with difficulty. The sleep that the half an hour long drive from the airport had permitted her had been refreshing but the dream that had accompanied it had been not. She took a long sip of her coffee, trying to hold her eyes open.

_Do you know that we don't really need sleep? _It must have been a damn hard habit to kick, Claire caught herself thinking when they approached the ruins of the house. The area was cut off by yellow police tape, but detective Brooks had been right there wasn't a soul to be seen.

Sylar looked more like his old self than ever. He was wearing a black shirt and the stubble on his cheeks he hadn't had the time to shave in the early morning hours somehow made him look more menacing. He circled the scene, picking up random things and closing his eyes to concentrate on their history. Most of them were merely little more than ashes, turned black from the fire that had consumed the house. He threw them aside, one by one, muttering about "not getting a thing".

Claire sat on a stone block that must have been left of the building's substructure. The morning was bleak and the air was chilly, the sky above them monotonously grey, threatening to rain at any moment.

Sylar crouched in front of the chimney, sliding his palms along the mouth of the fireplace. Finally he stopped, his eyes shut. "It was him," he said, turning to Claire. "It was Kenrick. Apparently he has the ability to blow himself up." His last sentence was dripping with sarcasm.

"Kenrick blew up his own house?" Claire asked incredulously. They had considered it as a possible scenario, but such a course of events had seemed a little unrealistic to her.

"Yes, the guy went all Armageddon on his own house. Call the nearest psychiatric hospital! Can we go home now?" Sylar whined. The other agents hadn't lied, the man really hated doing the Company's bidding which explained the lack of enthusiasm and his general grumpiness.

"_Why?_" she formed her main question.

"I don't know. I'm not a mind reader. I can't see what was going on in his head, but what I did see was him exploding," he explained as if to a child.

"Well, you can start by telling me what he did right before the blast," Claire said forcing her voice to be calm when in reality she just wanted to snap and tell Sylar to get over himself.

He sighed with frustration but crouched down again to lay his hand against the fireplace once more. His forehead wrinkled with concentration before he started speaking again. "He was angry. Furious… desperate. A call, there was a phone call," he said continuing with a whole description.

_Fire was crackling merrily, casting warm light to the dark room. The only other source of light in the living-room was the TV, playing on mute. Corey Kenrick, a tall brown-haired man, sat on the couch, fiddling nervously with his fingers._

_A phone ring startled him and he dug out his cell with obvious haste. "What did you do?" he said after receiving the call._

_A gruff voice sounded from the speaker, yet too quiet to identify the words it was saying._

"_My ex-wife called, upset, telling me she'd call the cops."_

_He listened to the answer for a moment._

"_No, no. I calmed her down, said I'd take care of it."_

_Another pause. Kenrick stood up to pace around the room._

"_I told you I'm not interested," he sounded desperate. "Why can't you just leave me alone? I promise I won't tell anyone. All I want is to live my life in peace."_

_He stopped to listen to the voice on the other end of the line again._

"_NO! Please. I'll do it," he yielded, voice cracking. "Alright, I'll do it. Just promise me you'll leave them out of it."_

_The voice in the phone sounded victorious, proceeding to prattle on for quite some time._

"_North Station. Locker number 39. I got it," he seemed to be repeating the instructions back to whoever was on the other side. "You'll know when it's done."_

_The line went dead. Kenrick held his cell in his hand, frozen, simply staring at the screen. He seemed utterly small for a man his height, almost as if he'd burst into tears at any second._

_Then his breathing started growing heavier, he started shaking all over his body. Finally Corey Kenrick threw his cell phone against the wall before a huge blast rocked the house and there was only fire._

Claire simply stared at Sylar, who had stood up again. He even had the decency to look genuinely concerned. But she couldn't _really_ see him, all she was thinking about was what he'd told her. And what he'd told her meant something bad. Only what? They needed to know more.

"Anything else we could use?" she asked him, her voice oddly emotionless.

"No," Sylar said grimly. But then again, Claire was already expecting that answer.

"Any chance he died in the explosion?"

"Close to zero. _No body_, remember?" he said flatly.

She got on her feet, pacing the empty site determinedly as the gears in her head kept turning to formulate a plan. "Alright. We have two viable leads which mean two possible plans of action. We can either go to the North Station to find the locker or we can pay a visit to that ex-wife of Kendrick's. I should have her address somewhere in the file…" she looked up hopefully. "What do you think?"

Sylar raised his eyebrows, leaning against the chimney. "North Station," he said after a short pause.

"But consider this the call was made _five_ days ago. It's more than certain that whatever was in that locker is long gone by now. With the ex-wife we could take advantage of your lie detection skill."

"You think the blackmailer left any evidence behind to track him down? I don't think so. He seems smarter than that," Sylar said coolly. "As for the locker, I might get lucky and get a glimpse of the contents."

Claire nodded slowly. "So let's go," she announced as she turned around and started walking towards the car and detective Brooks who waited them by the vehicle.

As soon as they reached their driver, Claire gave his companions the plan. "Brooks, you'll drop us off in the nearest train stop that can get us to the North Station and after that you'll drive to this address she handed him a paper note-find this woman and ask her about any threats she may have received recently. And try to be tactful about it, okay?"

"Of course," the man promised meekly.

"You think she'll tell him anything?" Sylar mused as they pulled away from the explosion site.

Claire thought about it for a moment. "She _already_ wanted to call the cops, so I think we have a fair chance that she'll come clean."

Detective Brooks stopped the car near a small train station, wishing them luck in a rather nonchalant manner. They watched him drive away while climbing to the concrete platform.

"Can we trust him?" Claire asked.

"When he agreed to question the ex-wife, he wasn't lying," Sylar said. "I think you can trust him as long as the bribe is big enough."

It took them almost an hour to make it to the North Station. Brooks called right before they stepped off the train to inform Claire that Mrs. Kenrick had admitted being threatened. She'd told him about a stranger who had given her son a letter to deliver to his mother. The letter had generously explained that if her ex-husband won't do as he's told they should expect a quite unpleasant future.

"So somebody is using Kenrick's family to blackmail him into doing something. He can blow up things hence we have to presume he wants him to blast something. We _need_ to know what and we have to stop it," Claire summarized the situation as they elbowed their way through a mass of people.

"Yes, that's simple logic, but how do you know he hasn't done it already?" Sylar pointed out.

"He said 'you'll _know_ when it's done', not 'I'll call you when it's done' which means it has to be big. Big enough to make the news and I haven't heard of any suspicious explosions except for Kenrick's own house."

They came to a halt in front of a wall of lockers, Claire's eyes darting around to find the number they were looking for.

"39," Sylar said, tapping against a thin metal door of the locker in question.

He made a simple gesture with his finger, opening the lock with ease. The door swayed open, the space behind it empty as Claire had predicted.

Sylar cocked an eyebrow at her that seemed to say "I love challenges". Then he did his trick again, placing his hands on the inside of the locker, moving them around as if trying to get a "hit". He looked positively like a madman, feeling the cool metal with his eyes closed.

"Two things, two paper slips," he started, sounding like a psychic communicating with some long lost spirit. "One's a plane ticket. Damn it, I can't see a thing… the other is a note, scribbled handwriting…"

Then his eyes suddenly flew open as the understanding came to him. He looked at Claire and there was something in his eyes that made her feel uneasy. "Oh, fuck," he murmured. "The picket at Washington."

"The one Strauss mentioned?" Claire asked anxiously.

"Yes. He's gonna blow it up."

"There're going to be hundreds, maybe thousands of people! I remember seeing the headline in the paper you were reading yesterday morning. And that was in Texas so it has to be huge," Claire said unbelievably. "He'd kill _at least_ hundreds of people…"

"But he'd save his family. Talk about priorities," Sylar said, though, for once not an ounce of amusement accompanied his remark.

"The time!" Claire shouted, probably looking like a lunatic. "What time does it begin?" she demanded looking at her wristwatch.

"I think the article said at 12 o'clock," Sylar said, glancing at his watch as well.

Claire gasped when she saw that it was past 11 already. Her whole body was protesting in terror her hands had turned shaky, her stomach was churning and her knees felt weak.

"No," she said rigidly, her voice abnormally calm. "No, this can't be happening. If this goes down there will be no peace between us and them."

Sylar looked at her with an expression that could only be interpreted as concern, in all probability waiting for her to collapse or start screaming again. But nothing happened. Claire just stood there, dumb-struck, trying to find a way out of this mess.

"I'll call Tracy," he said softly. "You inform Parkman. I'm sure they'll know what to do."

Claire nodded submissively, still frozen with shock. She pulled out her phone which, by the way, wasn't an easy task to perform with her shaky fingers and dialed the number. Not the one to the headquarters, but directly to Matt Parkman.

After she had explained the situation, Parkman just kept drilling her who's behind it, what are their true motives and on and on and on. But what he didn't provide was a solution. In fact, he acted as if the massacre had already occurred and damage control was in order.

"We can still stop it," she hissed to him, knowing it was a long shot. Kenrick was probably there already, among hundreds if not thousands of people, ready to execute his task. Even if they'd catch the next plane, even if the Company's tracking system would be able to locate him… which Molly most likely wouldn't be able to do since she had no connection to Kenrick and it wouldn't serve a real purpose because they knew where he was, only how to find him in a crowd of people?

"Tracy's making some calls, but she's not sure there's anything she can do," Sylar said after Claire had ended her conversation with Parkman. "It's too late."

Claire's mind was working with feverish speed. There was only one feasible course of action and it rested mainly on blind luck.

She raised her eyes to meet Sylar's. "You'll have to fly us there."


	8. Chapter 8

"You'll have to fly us there," Claire said as she turned around and started walking towards the exit as fast as she could, deaf to Sylar's protests. She was half way through the station when he caught up with her.

"No," Sylar said sternly for the tenth time. "We can call the authorities and hope they can disband the demonstration in time, but that is _all _we can do."

"If the police starts to chase away the crowds it will only lead to a riot or mass panic, should they reveal the reason, and Kenrick will probably detonate immediately."

"And how do you suppose we find Kenrick among these masses?" he asked stubbornly.

"I- I don't know. Somehow…" Claire stuttered, but her expression remained unfaltering.

Sylar sighed, pushing his hair back, seemingly unsure what to say or do to get through to her. "This is a suicide mission, Claire."

"Then it's a good thing neither of us can die," she said while stepping into the bright daylight that greeted them outside the station.

"If I do this," Sylar reasoned, "I'm going to be arrested sooner or later and I'll end up in the basement of some nameless government agency that makes level 5 look like a vacation. I can't do this, I won't."

"So what then? Screw it? We'll just let_ all_ those people die? I thought you had changed!" Claire yelled, making people on the street turn their heads and look at her cautiously. "I thought you wanted to be a better man, but guess what, Sylar, you're still the same cold egotistic son of a bitch who doesn't give a shit!"

She was startled by the rough hand that grabbed her arm, making her stop and face him. Sylar's eyes were black with fury Claire hadn't seen there since his "reformation". "Stop calling me that!" he spat. "_I_ am not _him_! So _stop_ calling him out." He breathed heavily as he looked away, releasing her arm from his tight grip.

"Look, I know the risk," _I know that you're scared,_ "but I can't idly stand by when hundreds of people are going to die," Claire said softly.

"I thought you were done saving the world."

Claire snorted familiar sadness washing over her. "So did I. But I guess I'm just a sucker for it."

Sylar gave her such an intense glare, that Claire felt for a second as if her brain might explode. Then his features softened a little and finally, after yet another sigh, a resigned smile spread across his face. "You'll gonna have to bust me out then," he muttered sounding like he was already regretting his decision.

They found a deserted alley not far from the North Station. Claire stepped between his waiting arms, closer than she ever really expected to be to him again. He pressed her tightly against his chest and the next thing she knew, they were speeding towards the somber sky.

As air swished by her ears, Claire wondered how she'd ever forgotten this feeling. How it felt to fly. West used to take her, but the last time must have been over a year ago. Lives, schedules, missions and never any time for fun…

And flying, of course, always reminded her of Nathan. The time he had so conveniently appeared behind her window right before a group of agents burst through her bedroom door and the ridiculous tequila drinking contest he had gotten himself into in Mexico. Valuable lesson there, though – never drink and fly.

But today Claire had the rare _privilege_ to fly in the arms of her father's murderer so she tried not to think about it too much.

It took them about forty minutes to get to Washington. Claire was glad when they finally landed, her limbs had started to get numb. Sylar released her from his hold as soon as their feet touched the ground on a rooftop not too far from their destination.

When they reached the plaza where the picket took place, it was already crawling with people, but only more and more was arriving. Policemen were everywhere, eying the masses watchfully, waiting for someone to cause a brawl.

Many of the protesters were carrying signs. Claire glanced at them as they dove into the mob. Some were more reserved, declaring simply "Rights to the many" or "Safe future for our children", others not so much, shouting messages such as "_This_ is not God's work" and "Leashes to the freaks!" (that one sounded particularly insulting).

"Chances are Kenrick's not gonna explode before more people have come," Claire whispered to Sylar, pushing through hordes of protesters. She briefly glimpsed her watch – ten minutes to twelve.

"Don't be so sure, remember, he doesn't want to do it, he might blow the place up _before _more people arrive," Sylar said dryly.

They exchanged a grim look. "We need to split up," Claire said, touching the hilt of her handgun inside her coat as she tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. Kenrick didn't want to do it. He only wanted to protect his family. He didn't deserve to die. But a man in desperation can be more dangerous than a man standing up for his principles. She knew he wouldn't probably back down, which meant she had to be ready to kill him.

"Alright," Sylar nodded, "but we shouldn't lose each other in the crowd."

They broke up, going through the masses, trying to keep an eye on each other at the same time. There were so many faces, so many people, and with every passing minute Claire felt more hopeless. The commotion around them was nearly unbearable. People were shouting out their opinions and, more often, plain insults at her kind. A small voice inside Claire's head whispered that if any of them recognized her, they'd likely rip her to pieces. _Maybe the world would be a better place without them?_ _No_, another voice insisted. _They're just scared of what they don't understand._

The midday came and Claire half-expected the plaza to blow sky-high, but nothing happened. Her stomach felt as if filled with acid. She _had_ to find him. It wasn't_ just_ about the lives of _hundreds_ of people, it was about peace, about possible future understanding, however slim a chance, between us and them.

Faces became one and the same constant blur. She searched for one, one face among _so_ many. Every now and then she made sure Sylar was still in her field of view.

It was ten past twelve. The passing of each minute felt more nerve-wrecking than the last. Twenty past twelve. _Any minute now_, she knew._ It could all be over any minute now._ Her eyes skipped from one face to another so fast it made her head spin a little. She must have gone through a hundred of them already if not more.

"Are you alright, sir?" she caught somebody saying. Her head automatically jerked to that direction, hoping against hope.

And then she saw him. He was standing in a hunched manner like he was suffering from a tremendous stomach ache, shaking all over his body.

Oh. My. God. _He's gonna explode any moment_, Claire realized. There was no time for warnings, no time to think.

She pulled out her gun, shouting "Sylar!" to gain his companion's attention. Her voice was barely audible as all the people around them had started screaming, most of them running in different directions, some of them frozen in place, paralyzed with fear.

Everything since then felt as if in slow motion. Kenrick looked up, his face twisted in terror. From the corner of her eye, Claire could see Sylar's head turning to her direction. She aimed the gun and two, no three, shots rang in the air.

The gun fell from her limp fingers and Claire felt completely bewildered. She couldn't understand what was happening. She had never fired. Only when she felt her knees giving in, she finally looked down. Her chest had turned red, blood was seeping seemingly from everywhere. _No. No. No_, her mind screamed. _You're shooting the wrong person! _she wanted to shout as she collapsed to the ground.

Then she saw Sylar. His eyes quickly slid over the rooftops, where the snipers must have been, before he turned his gaze back at Kenrick, making long strides to get closer as he fought against the flow of people who were running in the opposite direction.

"You fucking idiots!" she heard him bellowing. Then he came to a stop, raising his finger in the air. Claire could have sworn she heard him muttering "It's impossible to be good in this world," as he made a swift gesture with his index finger.

Suddenly a deep gash appeared along Kenrick's neck. He started coughing and sputtering blood, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands.

For a moment Claire was afraid that he might still detonate, but then he fell flat on his face, choking. He had no energy left, he couldn't do it. Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he simply couldn't summon the same rage towards those people that had made him blow up his house in the first place. The last thing Claire felt before passing out was sadness despite their succeeding.

When she became conscious again, she felt utterly confused. "Where am I?" she asked groggily even before she opened her eyes to examine the surroundings.

"Some mall," Sylar's voice replied calmly. Claire's eyes snapped open. They were in a changing room she presumed since there was a long mirror on the wall and a curtain hanging in front of the exit. She lied on a little sofa clearly too small for lying down properly, which meant she was in a weird position.

"What do you think?" Sylar asked turning to her as he ran his hands down a navy blue button-down shirt.

Claire still felt dizzy, massaging her temple with one hand. "_What?_" she asked, shaking her head slightly. "What are we doing here?"

Sylar rolled his eyes as if to say "isn't it obvious?". "Kenrick's dead, you were shot three times. After you passed out, I grabbed you and got the hell out of there. The whole place was crawling with cops and feds and whatnot. Since it's not wise to walk around covered in blood, I thought we might use some new clothes."

"We?" Claire asked, feeling like an utter fool for being so disconcerted.

"Yes. You got that stuff _all_ over me. Thankfully I was wearing black, otherwise they might have called the police when we entered. I had to convince the sales clerk you had a little too much to drink which, I think, she found a bit hard to believe since it's not even 1 o'clock yet," he chuckled mirthlessly. "Nothing some money and a concerned-boyfriend-act can't fix, though" he explained staring in the mirror as he straightened his collar. "I told her you had a little bit of an accident with red wine too. Talk about bad luck…"

Claire looked down and saw Sylar's black shirt covering her blood-soaked blouse. She also noticed his equally black tee-shirt lying in the corner.

"Sorry, I had to throw away your coat," he said nonchalantly, seeming somehow distant. "Anyway, pick something so we can go," he continued, motioning the clothes hanging from the rack. "I'll wait outside." And with that he exited the clothing room.

They took the train back to New York, both barely uttering a word during the trip. Claire knew she should have felt like a hero – she had saved hundreds of lives today, but instead she felt empty. Corey Kenrick might have been dead, but they still had no idea who had made him do it in the first place. Of course the Company would launch an investigation, trace calls and dust for fingerprints and whatever, but somehow Claire doubted the blackmailer had left any useful evidence behind that could lead to tracking him down. Sylar was probably right about that.

It was past 5 when they finally arrived to the Company only to sit down and write a report about everything that had happened that day. Being an agent could be annoying that way.

"Neat job," Matt Parkman allowed, when they dumped their writings in his office. But Claire didn't care, she knew he was probably throwing cartwheels out of happiness inside. In the end, he had avoided a huge hit to the reputation of evolved humans.

Right after emerging from Parkman's office they saw Tracy Strauss in the corridor, who congratulated them, ranting feverishly about the aftermath of the events, the explanations she had been giving to the authorities and the public announcement she was yet to make. Apparently the Company was already taking care of everything. _Good._ All seemed to be falling in place and should they be lucky enough, the Company would get Sylar off the hook for flying, too.

Claire hailed a cab and they drove back to her apartment so Sylar could get his duffel bag he'd left there only this morning. It felt like it had been at least a week ago. This whole assignment felt as if it had taken months to complete when in actuality Claire had left this very apartment no longer than two days ago.

"I should go then," Sylar said after making sure he had all his things packed. "My flight leaves less than two hours from now."

"I'll give you a lift to the airport," Claire said. She was tired but she felt she owed him that much for helping out. To be honest, she owed him quite a lot. Had he not been there they would have never managed to stop the explosion from happening.

They drove in silence. Claire didn't feel uncomfortable by it, but it was rather odd that neither of them had anything to say after all the events that had occurred that day. Sylar seemed completely lost in thought, staring out of the window. _Well, it is normal not to be very chatty when you've killed someone no more than six hours ago, _Claire thought to herself glumly.

She parked the car when they arrived in the airport and walked Sylar to the terminal. The vast waiting hall around them was sparsely populated, not many people travelling that late in the evening.

Sylar still looked absent when he set down his bag to say good-bye to Claire.

"Are you alright?" she asked, a touch of concern in her voice.

"Uh, yea, better than ever," he said, trying to laugh it off, but his tone sounded somehow hollow.

"As weird as it may sound," Claire started, a small smile sneaking into her features, "especially considering today's events, I, uh, I had quite a bit of fun with this assignment."

Suddenly Sylar's grin seemed a lot more genuine. "Well, yes," he barked a laugh. "It was nice to see you again after so long. And from what I can tell, you need to take time off work more often."

"Yeah, well, there's always more to do in the Company," Claire shook her head almost apologetically, though she couldn't exactly explain why she felt that way.

Sylar looked at her for a moment with the strangest expression plastered on his face. "Guilt," he said then, serious again.

"What?" Claire asked her brow furrowed.

"I _know_ why you work so hard. Why you can't let go of the Company. Why you still choose to believe in their cause. _Need_ to believe. You feel guilty for exposing us, for what's happening to our kind. You think it's all your fault, but Claire, that is a burden too heavy for anyone to bear. You need to let go. Take it from someone who knows a thing or two about guilt. It'll destroy you if you let it." He raised his hand as if to pat her on the shoulder or something, but must have reconsidered as his open palm stopped mid-air for a split second, before he lowered it again.

Claire was left oddly speechless by his monologue. "Bye then," he said quietly as he picked up his bag and started to walk away from her before she had the time to utter a word.

As Claire stared at his retreating back, she didn't feel the relief of departing from a man she hated, like she had felt in the past, but instead like she was saying farewell to an old friend, which was much too weird to process at that very moment.

Before she could stop herself, Claire took a step forward, her mouth hanging awkwardly open but no words coming out. "Hey!" she blurted finally, "Gabriel!"

He stopped on the spot, looking back with mild interest on his face.

"Should I, uh," Claire found herself stuttering, "Should I ever happen to be in Texas, can I, um, can I…?"

His lips curved into a lopsided smile. "You should come by. I definitely want a rematch in pool."

**AN: I felt this is the natural end of this particular fic (a little too long for a first one to begin with, I suppose). I will probably continue with a sequel in the future. Feel free to give me any final thoughts, comments, criticisms, etc.**

**Thanks for reading and have a great day!**


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